Passed Past
by SocietalFlub
Summary: Multi-chapter fic. Harold's POV as he finds out Maude has passed and how he spends the rest of his life.


Harold and Maude Fanfiction

As Harold watched the sun rise, it astounded him that the world was continuing to rotate in the midst of what was happening, for his world had stopped. The light growing brighter, he felt it was mocking his mood, which was inversely becoming increasingly darker. Never in his twenty years of existence had the man felt such anguish; that was probably on account of his never getting attached to anything, he figured.

But now he was attached to something. A very important something. He'd found that something—or rather, someone—that he longed to spend the rest of his life with. Against all odds, in spite of his eccentricities, he'd found her. They had found each other, yet it was then seeming to Harold that she was slipping from his grasp the way her breath was slipping from her lips for the last few times no doubt.

_Don't think like that_, he thought, and he shook his head as if to free the notion from his mind. He gazed through the window of the waiting room at the rising sun, wishing it would stop for a little while.

'Mr Chasen,' said the man in the white coat.

The pacing which had been in full effect by Harold for the past hour came to an abrupt halt as the doctor addressed him. Harold's heart beat faster, his stomach clenching.

'I'm very sorry to tell you this, but Marjorie has passed on.'

Harold let out the breath he had been holding. He felt hollow. Passed on. Passed past. She was his past, never to be a part of his future, the one he had planned for them, the one he had never thought he would dream of until he fell in love with Maude. Passed. She passed through his life: not there one week, there the next, only to do a sufficient amount of not-being-there once more.

Maude had told him to go and love some more. Never. He would never love another again. It was thanks to her that he had learned what love was; he'd never gotten it from his uncle or even his mother

Now what would he do?

Harold was, in every sense of the word, alone. The doctor had left, his one love was dead, his mother couldn't care less about where he was; it really didn't matter what he did now.

Orange light was swarming the room; it was unwelcome to Harold.

The young man looked around. Everything was so solidary. The chairs lined against the wall had their places and would probably stay there until the hospital stood no more. The colossal window from ceiling to floor dominated the room and always would. But people weren't like that. There was no solidarity in human life. Humans had a nasty habit of entering the world late and leaving early.

Harold didn't feel like moving at all, ever again, but he felt he was infringing on the hospital's hospitality. He could only stay for so long, he figured, and his time was running out.  
Would his mother care about where he was, about what had just happened? Probably not. She hadn't cared when she thought he might be gone forever. He faked his suicide so often because he longed for her to simply care, for her to have a reaction like the first time she'd thought he was dead. He went to funerals so that he could experience some form of vicarious love-the people at funerals wailing over their losses gave him a morbid sense of satisfaction.

_Screw her_, he thought. _This time she's really going to miss me_.

Harold was through with the wimpy displays of fake blood and trick nooses, tricks of holding his breath and escaping from fires.

He finally moved from where he had been standing when the doctor told him of Maude's death. Without a glance at the nurses at the desk calling after him, he slipped through the sliding doors. He got in his car, fumbling the keys, and turned it on. Ripping out of the lot, he floored the pedal as soon as he could.

Harold drove. He looked out the open window, rested his head on the side of the car door. He'd been awake going on twenty-four hours, but now wasn't the time for sleep. Now was the time to leave his final mark on the world.

The car zoomed past startled hitchhikers; he swerved around the other cars, passing them in his hurry to get it over-with. Finally, after whizzing past the dwindling scenery, he was at the edge of the cliff.

The hearse soared off the precipice, landing with a deafening crash on the beach below.

Without looking down at the wreckage, Harold's banjo was slung over his shoulder and he turned around.

_If you want to sing out, sing out. If you want to be free, be free._

Harold was finally free.


End file.
